Just a cute little Mollcroft thing I wrote while half asleep. Enjoy~
Perhaps it was her attire. Or the skill each delicate stroke of her hand suggested. Maybe it was her precision; her artful neatness; the dutiful finality that lay nestled in the turn of every practiced stitch.
In a way it was all of those, and in the same way it was something else entirely.
It was her soft little voice, that thing that barely rose higher than a measly whisper yet carried twice as much force as a resonating shout - but only when absolutely necessary. It was the way she tucked her hair behind her ears and pulled it into a neat pony-tail, though most with her caliber of shyness would hide behind every available tendril. It was that same shyness that transmuted unto invisibility. It was the soft shades of pink and green and yellow she wore under blue stained with blood. It was the way those things didn't frighten her like they did the stereotypical female, but fascinated her in a sort of innocent way.
It was all that and then some.
It was her.
He'd know it for a while, yes, and so had she (there was more to him, too, but that hardly needed interpretation); though neither of them needed to say it aloud. It communicated well in the conversations they shared over corpses and the book recommendations they passed back and forth over coffee. Because Molly Hooper was different, and she was interesting, and she knew that Mycroft Holmes thought as much of her. And it was nice that the feeling was reciprocated, and it was nice that what they had eased its way into something more rather simply over time.
Even though the morgue mouse was transparent on the outside and brilliant on the inside, and the man who ruled the world was the very opposite, it worked out just right for them.
Replies would be apreciated~
